


Whiskey Eyes With No Reflection

by prettyoddmoon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Belt choking, Choking, Dom Tom Riddle, Exhibitionism, F/M, Hogwarts, Masturbation, Poker, Room of Requirement, Strip Poker, Tom being a controlling tease, degrading, thigh riding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:27:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28387767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettyoddmoon/pseuds/prettyoddmoon
Summary: In hindsight, she should've known better than to indulge in a game of Strip Poker with Tom Riddle himself, but her rather humiliating loss panned out to be more pleasurable than she'd expected.
Relationships: Tom Riddle & Reader, Tom Riddle/Reader
Comments: 14
Kudos: 74





	Whiskey Eyes With No Reflection

**Author's Note:**

> coming back to my roots with a sweet little tom riddle smut ;) readers, and, most importantly, sara - consider this a late christmas present and forgive me for taking longer than i promised, i'm a messy perfectionist. i kind of really hate this bloody fanfic, but i hope you find yourself enjoying it more than i do.

The scent of citrus and arrogance dallied away in the fervid, thick air, grains of dust twirling about and emphasised by the coppery glow of the candles. Tom's brandy-coloured eyes surveyed the girl before him, inspecting, calculating, observing; engulfing her in a mist of disorientation, mystery, and utter obscurity. This awe-inspiring effect his sole gaze had had upon her was no unfamiliar one – she'd long come to the realisation that no matter under which circumstances his eyes scrutinized her person, it would be no less than terrifying, even if in a mystifying, almost inciting manner. Riddle seized his bundle of cards as though a provokingly old money hand-held fan in his usual manner; he always tended to treat them with utmost grace and gentleness, yet not without a signature hint of sheer confidence – _arrogance_ , almost. Leaning back in the jade-tinted velvet armchair he was seated in, Tom relaxed his muscles and swung one leg over the other in a rapid motion. Pure haughtiness radiated off of the young man in electrifying, scorching waves, that, if given the opportunity, could level forests to the ground, immersed in its spiteful, obscure flames. Tom's ominous presence and atmosphere hung heavy in the air as though a bouquet of pungent scents at a perfume parlour or a milky haze in the earliest hours of the morning.

Before [Y/N] could weigh her next move, he leant forward and grasped a Pontarlier glass of the clearest crystal. It was sparsely filled with the stingy green of absinthe, and as he twirled it around in the palm of his hand, the girl threatened to get swallowed by the vortex of emerald liquor.

Riddle delighted in a careful gulp, face scrunching up just the slightest bit. His lower jaw shifted from side to side as though he was filtering the taste of the alcohol through his teeth, somehow allowing it to diffuse into his gums, and his eyes remained focused on the girl – her own eyes to be exact, eyes of a mysterious, alluring shade. The young witch was seated across from him in a rather comfortable velvet chair, though remarkably less luxurious than Riddle's, clad in nothing but her undergarments, and very, _very_ obviously on edge. Though the Room of Requirement almost smouldered with its habitual pleasant heat, goosebumps were scattered all over her mellow skin, with a certain tune resembling white noise raging in her ears.

She had sworn to herself never to indulge in strip poker with Tom Riddle ever again the second her skirt had slid off her hips and pooled around her ankles in a circle of fine tweed – that had to have been her third defeat of the night. By then, the score read a few more losses on the girl's end, considering her robes, jumper, undershirt, skirt, stockings, shoes, and lacy bralette were strewn all around the floor. All the while, Riddle remained seated, callous and still fully clothed to the thread. He possessed the most impressive self-control one could have – with a nude, fully exposed girl sitting right before him, he managed to keep a clear head and didn't allow himself to lose the game _once_.

“I do hope you've not forgotten it's your turn,” his deep voice tore through the gloom. He was still nursing the pretentious-looking glass in one hand, cards clutched in the other. The girl knew: whatever was hiding on their flipside, her chances of winning remained slim. It wasn't like she was in possession of weak cards herself – not bad at all, if she had to admit, and victory would be smiling at her in all its triumphant glory hadn't it been for the surety Tom had better cards on his hands; he _always_ would, no matter what. She had already come to that realisation three losses ago. It was a feeling, her intuition's nudge, one that she couldn't ignore, not after it was proven to be right several times in a row as he won, won, and won time and time again. Riddle's inescapable victory would remain and take place no matter the circumstances. Like a curse, like an oath, like a universal law.

[Y/N] gulped. “No. I am... merely pondering.”

In response, the Slytherin issued a smug _Humph_. Nearing, lurking victory burned bright in his irises, engraved into his pallid, sculpted face in an expression of glee-diluted disdain. _He was dead set on his oncoming victory. He was convinced he was going to win. He was sure it would be over for her in that case. And she understood that._

No way out. She sighed, placing her cards on the small coffee table of sheer glass that stood between the two players, separating them from one another. “Fold.”

Riddle sneered. His white teeth glowed in the dim, yet cosy, rich lighting, and, to make the last move of that round, laid down his own cards in front of the girl. She eyed them with curiosity, and then compared them to the array spread across the table previously, toying with possible combinations.

Tom spoke at the same time as the relisation kindled in the young witch's mind, “Royal flush.” There was no denying that. Riddle leant forward as to rearrange and reassemble the cards, putting them in the correct, _winning_ order: ten all the way up to ace, all in their black glory of Spades.

In comparison to Riddle's hand, [Y/N]'s meant nothing. He beat her, _royally_ so, and now she had lost completely, with no other item of clothing to strip out of except for her pair of panties. Defeat had never felt so bittersweet on her tongue – bitter due to the immediate, yet not unusual destruction of her ego, and sweet due to the fact she'd be completely naked in front of Tom _fucking_ Riddle.

_He'd have to do something about it, surely._

By that time, he had slumped back into his initial position: one leg swung over and resting atop the other, arms lying on either side of the armchair. He drummed the fingers of his dominant hand against the velvet fabric of the chair, the kaleidoscope of pine-green-and-onyx of the ring on his middle finger dancing in the dusky light. Mien emphasised by anticipation, he emptied his glass of absinthe in one swift gulp, consecutively dropping it on the floor. It shattered into a myriad of glistening pieces, as though tears of glamorous sorrow frozen in place forevermore. The young witch gave a mere start at the sharp noise, skin prickling with arising goosebumps and mouth running dry due to the undeniable spark strained between the two of them as though electricity.

Tom's command that followed was clear, “Lose them.”

[Y/N] inhaled with palpable sharpness, straightening her back as to release at least _some_ of the tension gathered in her muscles by then. Somehow, the task appeared to be the hardest she'd ever had to master.

“ _Now_.”

The girl's fingers curled into the waistband of her undergarments, and she lifted her lower body a bit as to be able to slide them off. Her core burned with the rising tension in the room, and the girl made sure to stretch out the process for as teasingly long as she could manage. Tom closely followed the ordeal with his eyes, forcing calm, almost unbothered breaths, but it was obvious he had to fight back an urge of _some_ kind; akin to a dangerous predator, he bit back a craving to leap, attack, and make her his. Not like she would mind... but denying her the exact fruit she coveted so intensely turned out to be Tom's favourite sort of activity.

The moment she was done, he rasped, “Well done, darling. Now, hand them over.”

Black lace clutched in the palm of her quivering hand, she stretched out her arm, thus allowing Tom to take hold of her panties. His cool, thin fingers merely brushed the digits of the girl's own hand, that brief yet electrifying collision stinging the girl's insides as though a myriad of sewing needles had infused her bloodstream. Meanwhile, Riddle switched to fumbling with the pleasant fabric, scrunching it up and ultimately sneaking the underwear into his pocket.

Having taken a deep, almost languid breath, he narrated, “Well, then, [Y/N]. The verdict is: You've played atrociously. I am not quite sure I have yet been able to witness such a pathetic, laughable discomfiture. It was utmostly entertaining – for me, of course, – and I can only imagine what it must be like for _you_. Bare, exposed, defeated, _humiliated_ – I am quite aware of your blithe little desire to have the upper hand... _That_ isn't possible if you're dealing with _me_ , and by now, you'd best learned your lesson.”

The girl nodded, choking out an unsteady _Yes_. At that moment, that was the only response she could offer him. Better than nothing, surely, yet not quite enough.

Riddle raised his eyebrows almost theatrically – [Y/N] caught herself thinking he'd make a wondrous stage actor hadn't it been for the incompetence of perceiving empathy and portraying raw emotion – and spoke, “ _Pardon?_ ”

“Yes, _sir_ ,” corrected the young witch. At once, the Slytherin's face split in a small smirk; he was pleasantly surprised she'd latched on so quickly.

“That's more like it,” he assured. His eyes darted to the side, and he took a moment to take stock of the Room of Requirement, the place they had found themselves in on that cosy December night, a mysterious and enticing kind of sanctuary at their full command once again. “Do me a favour and get on the bed right there for me, yes?”

Tilting her head to the side, the girl followed the direction in which Riddle had nodded. A gigantic canopy bed which they had seen upon entering the room stood in all its velvety, emerald-silver-and-gold glory, and as [Y/N] carefully stood up from her chair and obediently did as she was told, she heard Tom follow suit; he had muttered a spell to himself, which she failed to pick up. Yet as she had climbed atop the bed, bare skin colliding with the soft and lavish sheets, her question was answered at once: Tom had used a levitating charm to raise the piece of furniture into the air and herd it into desired position, and soon came to set it down before the foot of the bed. Pocketing his wand, Riddle took a graceful seat.

“Do you think you are capable of putting on a little show for me, mmh?” he questioned in a hotly curious tone, performing the signature crossing of legs, solely letting his ankle rest atop his knee. [Y/N] recognised he wouldn't accept anything but _Yes_ for an answer, and flashed a playful grin. Of all the obscene activities the pair ever indulged in, _that_ they hadn't done before.

“I believe I can,” replied the young witch. “Since you're the rightful victor, I deem it plausible for you to be deserving of a prize.”

Tom's smirk remained, features darkening with enticement as more and more time came passing by. “Very well. Spread your legs for me then, would you?”

With not a thought of hesitation, [Y/N] complied; with her knees slightly bent, she drove them apart from each other, propping herself up on her arms. She tried her best not to appear sheepish or nervous, but the storm of emotions stirring within her made it hard to do so. Tom traced every curve of her body with his inquisitive yet alluring eyes of a whiskey shade, marvelling and stalling with profound admiration. Sending a careful hand through his dark, wavy hair, he loosened the green tie around his neck by giving it a few tugs and tilting his head. All the blood throbbing in his temples seemed to rush further south, and as he hardened in his classy black trousers, he issued an order, “Pleasure yourself for me. Do as though I weren't here, as though you're fantasising about me like I know you tend to.”

Truth be told, the aforementioned scenario was a little _too_ familiar for the young witch. She'd be shamelessly lying if she ever disavowed the many hours spent behind the dreamy curtains of her bed beneath a layering pile of silencing charms, with thoughts of Tom Marvolo Riddle orbiting her mind on a neverending loop. Each and every time, with her hand between her legs, helpless and desperate, trying to replace or at least emulate the way he could make her feel – but nothing, not a single motion seemed to even come close. There was always _something_ that was missing, a spark or a pinch or a certain sort of sweetener, and whatever it was, Tom and solely Tom was in possession of it.

And now, now that he was mere inches away from her, in the flesh and oh-so-handsomely salacious, angular face seemingly shrouded in shadow yet illuminated all at once, with the two finding themselves in a perfectly solitary environment – even with a goddamn utterly _luxurious_ bed at their disposal – he meant for her to touch herself instead of taking action, in opposition to what he was in the habit of doing.

_She could never understand him. She wouldn't know where to even begin._

Her trembling hand slid in between her legs, and under Tom's close observation, she opened her folds for him, feeling herself out. Almost painfully wet, she let out a suppressed moan as she brushed her index finger over the sensitive bundle of nerves that was her clit. [Y/N] proceeded to repeat the same movements over and over, gradually catching up more speed as she rubbed the delicate knob. Her breath had begun quickening and hitching, and she leant back just a little, propping herself up with the elbow of her free arm. With her eyes having flickered shut, she indulged in a delicious daydream – a memory from a few days ago – from when Tom had roughly taken her atop a sink in the girls' bathroom on the second floor; somehow, he had picked up quite the liking to that precise lavatory (and, frankly, fucking [Y/N] in it... or at the very least having her blow him until he was coming down her throat in hot, thick spurts). The encounter was divine, as they were so riled up they didn't even bother to take off any clothes and Tom had ripped [Y/N]'s panties clear off before fucking her into all possible realms of oblivion and overstimulation. She recalled the following couple of hours being filled with a sharp, spiky pain in the pit of her stomach, as though a constant bloody swordfight raging in her crotch area. Although she perceived it agonising to walk for the remainder of that day, a slight smirk lingered upon her flushed face for the entirety of it. The fact she'd been going commando around the castle halls was a mere added bonus to that ever-present pleasure in the perception of _what_ they'd done, and _how_ they'd done it. And, not to mention, the glorious feeling of having _something_ carefully drip down the inside of your thigh.

Keeping up the steady movements of her hand, the girl basked in the recollection, desperate to be able to slip back into her body at that very moment. _Couldn't he repeat that?_ At that point, she would be willing to beg; on her knees or otherwise.

As her imagination flashed shreds of images of past rendezvous, the girl kept her pace steady, applying more and more pressure to her sensitive clit, and only then did she realise _just_ how close she had pushed herself to her immediate climax; the discharge was right there, and a few impatient, vigorous rubs later, [Y/N] was melting into a blissful case of clitoral orgasm – it could never outdo the impact Tom's cock had on her, it could never even compare, but it certainly danced within the realms of _that_ pleasure. Letting out a handful of breathy, cut-off moans, she stimulated herself through the process, and took a deep breath as the brief climax wore off. Through a plum-coloured haze of pleasure, she allowed her eyes to flutter open at last – only to be met with Tom, a Tom that was gently stroking himself through his trousers. With the outline of his cock more than prominent and _very_ defined beyond the dark fabric, [Y/N] caught herself realising that had Riddle's trousers been any tighter, they would've shown every last vein that was wrapped around it. It was as though his cock ached to get freed from the narrow restraints, ached to spring free, ached to be put to some splendid use at last. The corner of Riddle's mouth was lifted, and an obscure fire burned bright beyond his chocolatey irises. An arrow of jealousy and acrimony shot through the girl's lit-ablaze body as though fired by a devilish version of Cupid, and she bit her lip so as not to cry out at the picturesque sight.

Instinctively – subconsciously, even, – [Y/N] took a meager leap in Tom's direction, as though a reflex triggered by a certain longing for _something, something_ Riddle was too well-aware he was in possession of. Smirking, he used his dominant hand to help unzip his black trousers. And with that task, he took his sweet time, _obviously_ , and, catching the girl's eyes fixated on his crotch, most probably admiring the all-too-apparent outline of his hardened cock, he indulged in a sinister giggle. Soon enough, he had pulled himself out of the constraints of his clothes and balled a fist around his erection. Soon enough, not without having drunk in a few lustful gazes from his counterpart, Riddle began lazily stroking himself, rhythm steady, yet stagnant. [Y/N] made sure to watch him as he did so – he was convinced her mouth had begun watering at the sight – and as she swallowed hard, his suspicions had been confirmed. Tom sneered at the absolute desperation, the pathos of craving him _so_ severely, and made the gracious decision to ease some of the tension and grant the young woman a treat.

With his palm gracefully wrapped around his cock, he slid it up with a certain tardiness in his movements, and brushed his thumb over his sensitive, velvety-to-the-touch scarlet head. Therefore, he collected a few beads of pre-cum that had formed atop it. Eyes fixed on [Y/N]'s, he instructed, a bitterly ominous, lush aftertaste to his voice, “Come closer.”

Desperate and in need of whatever it was he was about to bless her with, the girl leapt forward, sitting down on folded legs on the edge of the bed right before him. Now that he was so close, the pungent smell of his vintage cologne swirled its way into her nostrils and scrambled her brains as though eggs they were usually served for breakfast. With her vision hazy and mouth fuzzy, [Y/N] watched the following go down: Tom let go of his erection as it gently bumped against his clad stomach, leant forward, bringing his large hand up to her face, and as his fingers supported the underside of her chin – he noted to himself _just_ how sweltering hot her face had grown to be – the Slytherin used his thumb to spread his pre-cum over her soft bottom lip. Swiping his finger back and forth across it, he proceeded to slide it into her mouth as she opened it for him wider and wider oh-so-obediently. The girl had consequently sealed her lips around Tom's thumb, raising her own hands to wrap around his wrist and suck on it with pleasant might. Riddle glanced to the side, as though unbothered by the gesture. And who was [Y/N] kidding; he probably was.

Soon enough, the girl had let go of his wrist, and as he extracted his thumb from her mouth, she licked her bottom lip with needy impatience as to collect every last drop of the pre-cum he had graced her with. He obviously observed, and as she gazed deep into his dark eyes, she attached her hands to his hips and leant forward, bending down towards his cock. Tom caught her in the moment, grasping her by her mane of thick, soft hair, and tugged the young witch back up, fist entangled in her locks. Bringing her face up to the level of his, his hot breath tickling her crimson-drenched cheeks, he explained, “ _No_ , not so fast. You _will_ take your previous position, and you _will_ proceed by means of my instructions. Do not forget: you're a _loser_. And losers don't get fucked, as I hope you can imagine – they fuck themselves instead and are forced to watch as their Master, the victor, gets themselves off. Am I clear, now?”

The young witch panted, offended and enticed at the same time. “Yes, my everything,” she complied, saddened yet obedient and putty in his powerful hands. There was a span of approximately twenty seconds where the two just gazed at one other, with Tom drinking in [Y/N]'s absolute beauty scarred by madness for him and only him, and [Y/N] erring within and getting lost in his sombre eyes of whiskey that were so dangerous to look into.

It was when he tugged on her hair once more that the eye contact was broken, but only for a bat of an eye. The young witch obeyed Riddle's orders, assuming her former position on the bed, and watched as he sunk back into the armchair, the hand that was moments earlier inside her mouth and consequently entwined in her hair snaking around his erect cock once more. Oh, how she wished his pale, veiny hand was her mouth...

“Proceed,” his voice flowed like tar, and had a similar effect, too, engulfing one in a state of sightlessness and inexplicable, tardy mystery. “Just, this time, do it _properly_ ; abandon the rubbing.”

[Y/N] gulped. “Yes, my Lord,” she put forth feebly. Riddle's breath caught in his chest at the name he was addressed with, his cock giving a slight twitch within the palm of his hand. Something about that title leaving the girl's plump, glistening lips in that precarious tone of hers did him multiple favours at once – be it in the enticement or the ego department.

Proceeding to sneak her hand back in between her thighs, the young witch spread her legs just the slightest bit, solely to provide her counterpart with an improved view. Tom, in his turn, gifted himself slow, inattentive strokes, with his eyes plateauing upon the girl's. As though by charm, [Y/N] couldn't dare tear her glare away, and stared back at Riddle with a look of spiteful innocence and debauchery. His sallow face stood out in the gloom of the room, almost appearing to glow in the copper shadows cast by candles and torches peppered all around the place. His piercing glare remained fixated on her as she teased her core a little, soon pushing in two digits, pumping and gradually picking up more speed.

With her lip captured between her teeth, she issued one needy pant after another, scissoring and stretching herself open. As much as she'd wished for her fingers to be replaced by Tom – either his own or, even better, that gorgeous cock of his – she knew better than to object and disobey orders. [Y/N], by then, was all-too-familiar with Tom Riddle: he meant every word he ever shed, and if he ever warned her, she knew to act upon every command straightaway, since otherwise, the consequences would be _bitter_. Whines tore themselves free from her lustful mouth, and she kept her rhythm steady, at least as much as her fogged-up brain and frenzied body allowed her to.

“Beautiful,” Riddle gave out beneath his breath. “Add another finger for me.”

In no time, [Y/N]'s index and middle fingers were joined by her ring finger, which at first overwhelmed her due to the sudden wave of pleasure that swooped over her head. She pumped a tad rougher, her eyes suddenly rolling into the back of her head, where she was met with Tom's image – tall, handsome, mysterious, obscure – yet again. His specific, head-whirring scent lingered around her nostrils, which painted an even more detailed picture: wavy locks of ebony cascading down his head, a sallow, chiseled face lined with years of intimidating arrogance, sinister eyes, strong arms, enticing back muscles, refined palms, long ring-embellished fingers, lanky frame, fitted suit. Even within the comfort of her own head, she could never escape him, not if she ever wished to, not if her life depended on it.

“Do keep your eyes with me, yes?” he demanded with, seemingly, all the calmness in the world, with the pure fury obscured in his tone no less than fully palpable in the air. The girl's eyes flew open at once, and as she focused them upon Tom's again, she realised he had been stroking himself with more force, his movements harsher, faster, and breath quicker. Waves of slick black fell in his face as he proceeded to jack himself off, and although she was ordered not to do so, the girl broke eye contact if only for a split second – just to marvel at his flushed cock, helplessly leaking pre-cum and veins more prominent than ever. She raved on the way it usually felt inside her mouth, how his sensitive head hit the back of her throat, how her tongue grazed his fervid skin, how the slight pressure applied to the back of her head by his merciless palm allowed her to go deeper, deeper than she ever deemed possible, how his cum slid down her throat as he instructed her to swallow all of him with her eyes focused upon him. Her mouth watered helplessly – if she dwelled on it for any second longer, she'd probably lose her consciousness due to the overwhelming libido that had blossomed within the pit of her stomach and spread towards her brain.

Before Riddle could call her out on her misbehaviour, her eyes shot back up to meet his – lustful rage stared back at her through his brandy irises. As she continued pleasuring herself with her look burned upon him, she introduced her thumb, which helped by roughly brushing her clit each and every time anew. Having decided to pick up her pace due to the realisation that she wouldn't last much longer, the young witch's whines, whimpers and pants increased in volume. Of course, the sensation could never even come close to what Tom was able to do to her, but it sure as all hell was heavenly – knowing that the one-woman-show she was delighting in was being viewed by Riddle as he got himself off, too, contributed to the overwhelming pleasure of it all. When she'd first started, she couldn't help but feel a tad vulgarly sheepish, naked and touching herself before someone for the first time in her life, but that abashedness soon bled into coyness, which, in its turn, melted into confidence with the help of the ardent realisation that Riddle liked the scenario. With her mouth gaped open in an almost pornographic manner, [Y/N] couldn't help but assume an overwhelming speed, even for herself – she was just _so_ close, and the oncoming climax's foretaste was too empyreal not to indulge into.

Almost there, her haze of delight was shamelessly torn through, “Slow down. It is solely _my_ duty and only up to me to take you apart like this; consider yourself and have some decorum.” Tom's words flowed as though blood spurting out of a fresh wound, so painful and striking they were, and of course, [Y/N] had no other choice than to comply. As though a pleasant, heavy mist exterminated by a subtle draft of fresh air, her oncoming orgasm faltered, and she assumed a gradual pace. Knowing she'd have to repay the man _somehow_ , she proceeded to issue a gentle, prolonged moan, at which she knew Tom's breath would hitch. Thereupon, she basked in her success – her own little victory. For once.

Watching as a turbid droplet of sweat rolled down his temple, the girl kept up her rhythm, chest heaving at a rather vigorous pace. Tom closed his teeth around his bottom lip, indulging in that very luscious, obscene sight, drifting closer and closer to relief, as the tugging and stirring in the pit of his stomach intensified. He was aware, better than anyone else, too, that he'd be able to get off loads better with [Y/N]'s mouth (or even cunt) replacing his hand, as he didn't particularly refer to pleasuring himself often as he had the young witch at an arm's length to do it for him, but punishment meant punishment, and robbing her of the intecourse she oh-so-fervently desired once in a while wouldn't hurt; Merlin knows the two of them had been participating in too much of that to consider modest. Though he would never dismiss the opportunity to fuck a pretty face, rules were rules and guidelines were meant to be kept at times.

With the pace of her digits overwhelming yet not quite effective enough, the young witch mewled, “Sir, please–”

“Don't waste your breath,” spat Riddle, tone sharp and full with banishment. He loathed when the young witch spoke to him without being addressed first, and the sheer rage that had awakened within him due to the fact filled the sultry air. She'd ridden him to the verge of his limits, that was certain. “Continue like a good girl unless you want to be punished like a filthy whore.”

That punishment Tom was referencing didn't sound half bad to the girl, _oh how it didn't,_ yet by then, she had already ventured into the outright perilous realm of his temper, and to challenge it even more would be the worst decision of her life – she recognised perfectly well. Thus, with no more words spoken into existence, [Y/N] proceeded, trying to reach deeper in desperate search of her sweet spot. Tom never experienced difficulty in the attempt to find it, given sometimes it seemed as though he knew his way around the girl's body better than she did, and even more so, his fingers were much longer and far more skilled to provide her with the utmost pleasure if he desired to. Issuing a shaky sigh, the girl continued, simultaneously stimulating her clit as she went. The act added to the pleasure, though threatened to become painful quite soon. She would never finish like this, it was agony. And worst (or best – however you fancy to perceive it) of all? Tom knew. His sheer awareness of the ongoing events surpassed that of fuzzy-brained [Y/N].

By then, Riddle had slowed his hand movements down to a gradual, almost gentle stroking, seemingly using all the time in the world to admire the spectacle unfolding before his eyes – tragical to the girl herself, most comical to him. The faint whimpers that tumbled down her quivering lips wove an utmostly likable melody of passion for Tom's ears, encasing all of her immeasurable desperation and yearning for something more, something the young witch was more than capable of gifting herself, but decided against in order not to displease her master. _Always so good for him, so obedient, so subservient._ Having issued a satisfied groan beneath his breath, Tom gave his cock a firm squeeze in order not to cum all over his gallant suit _just_ at the utter sight and cognisance of that. It wasn't time _just_ yet, but it was certainly nearing. He deemed seeing her melt and give in to her own fingers one brilliant sight, especially with the background knowledge that it was none other than him she was dwelling on whilst pleasuring herself, but that view could never match the electrifying heat of her body against his, the bedlam pattern of her heart thumped in, the mere film of sweat glistening atop her skin as a signal of utter lechery, all those small little prompts that never failed to inform Tom Riddle of _just_ how badly he was desired – he sort of found himself missing it in some kind of twisted context.

“You've been good enough for me, darling, now fuck yourself like you wish I was doing right now,” Riddle demanded of her, intonation darkened and stringent. A sense of relief came crashing upon the agitated young witch, and with a deep sigh that bled into a rich moan, the movement of her fingers momentarily quickened. She proceeded to issue one unintelligible whine after another, driving herself closer and closer to her second orgasm of the night (brought on by her own self – most unfortunately). Thoughts intertwining and blending together in a mush of colourful notion, she wallowed in the idea of Tom; the unalloyed confidence in every act of his, the soft sting his body heat prickled at her skin with, his gentle yet determined touch, his wicked and masterful in all imaginable realms tongue, his simple and undeniable superiority palpable to every soul that came across him. Riddle was a creation of some sort of beatific divinity, set upon this planet to dominate, surpass, and excel.

Her mockingbird heart threatened to thump its way out her throat as she finally led herself to a long-anticipated discharge, sweetened by the fact she'd teasingly delayed it under the instruction of her master. The blissful sensation set in in gradual waves, and [Y/N] was forced to bite down on her lower lip so as not to yelp out in immediate ecstasy. With her eyes remaining glued to Riddle's, she watched a fire ignite within his irises of pure, aged bourbon; a bundle of flames that only she perceived the pleasure to witness, something that was so special and unique between the two of them.

Whilst panting and leading herself through her orgasm, she listened as Tom spoke once more, “What a good girl... come sit on top of me.” His tone bordered the realms of rewarding, and the kind words of praise he issued translated to luscious music to the girl's ears, considering it was so seldom yet so wished for. Mouth hung agape, she proceeded whimpering, the remainders of her climax fading into a simple, yet nevertheless pleasant vibration between her thighs.

Riddle didn't seem amused with the dismissive slacking. “Do not make me repeat myself,” he threatened, stern, forehead assuming a few spiteful lines that [Y/N] learned to try to avoid at all costs. In a bat of an eye, she detached her almost numb hand from her sweltering core, and, having positioned herself on her knees, dove towards her lover. Mere inches away from him, she took determined hold of his hardened yet unattended cock, and straddled Tom's lap, hovering above his erection and moments shy of adjusting it at her entrance.

“No, not like that,” warned Riddle, voice cold, words sharp as daggers. Sometimes, conversing with him felt like a neverending sabre duel on a frigid December morning that you would lose no matter what, not even the warm trickling of your own blood capable of mitigating the shuddering frostiness. “You think I can bear the sight of you fucking yourself on my cock? Mount my thigh and start riding.”

Upon his request – _command_ , [Y/N] let go of him, fingers nevertheless longingly brushing over the velvety skin and the frail bundle of veins coated by it. A shiver ran down her spine at the realisation that she wasn't receiving what she yearned for so ardently, but after all, she had lost to him, lost so embarrassingly it felt as though a stab to the heart, a shot to the forehead, a kick to the gut. She deserved it; deserved to dissolve in absolute desperation whilst riding his thigh. Thus, the young witch shifted her position, and soon enough settled atop Riddle's right leg, folds gently colliding with the soft fabric of the Slytherin's onyx trousers. It went without saying she would stain them, an item of clothing so luxurious and not to mention utmostly dear to Riddle, and for that, she recognised, he would punish her, too.

As though he had heard her flustered train of thought (and she didn't entirely cross out the possibility he actually did), Tom sent his right hand up and clasped it around the girl's exposed neck, fingers curling around and digging into her fervid flesh. Her blood began pumping harder beneath his touch, and he flashed a grin at the fact. [Y/N] was overwhelmed with terror, head spinning in circles and mouth hung open, yet she couldn't bring herself to care about it even one single bit. Especially not when Riddle had reached towards his buckle with his free hand, proceeded to grab it, and ultimately yanked his belt out of the loops securely holding it in place – all whilst keeping his eyes fixated on hers. And the more [Y/N] glared into them, the more she realised they bore no reflection. When all dark surfaces usually mirrored the image before them, his whiskey eyes did not, housing a sole evil glint within them. You could never see your reflection in Tom Riddle's eyes, because you simply didn't exist to him.

Once the young witch had come to, the hand that was wrapped around her throat had been replaced by Riddle's firm leather belt, disrupting her air circulation just enough to cause her heart to beat a pace faster. Grasping the other end, he tugged her down by it, capturing her hot lips in a brief, yet lustful kiss. “Start. Riding,” he muttered into it, bucking his leg against her. _Oh, wow._ [Y/N] had provoked _the_ Tom Riddle to repeat himself.

Immediately, she began rocking back and forth atop his thigh, core rubbing against the mellow material of his trousers. In unfortunate result, the girl lost his lips, whimpering as her own met the top of Tom's cheekbone instead. By almost feral instinct, her head shot backwards, locks of thick hair bouncing in the dusty, thick air of the Room of Requirement, which was gradually filling with more and more sharp, needy whines, as she picked up her pace and rode with more enthusiasm. Riddle's breathing experienced occasional hitches, though inaudible to the young witch, as her ears plugged up as though with balls of cotton produced by overwhelming desire and bliss. Tom closed the slender digits of his unoccupied hand around the girl's perked breast, groping, and soon enough came to pinch her hardened nipple between his thumb and index finger, twisting and applying pressure. With this act, he elicited a string of yelps out of the whiny girl in his lap, and she continued bouncing, issuing a very breathy _Yeah_.

“ _Yeah?_ ” mocked Riddle with a devilish sneer; he knew way too well how he was making her feel, not only with his palm, but with his sole presence, and not to tease her about it was considered a crime in his book. And, as we know, Tom Riddle _loved_ to commit crimes, thus going against all natural principles just for the sake of their shared pleasure.

“ _Don't_ –” mewled the girl without thinking, cutting herself off as soon as her brain had registered the weight of the sentence she was about to shed. Though her mouth had only managed to let out one singular word before it was forced shut, the damage had already been done: Tom tore his palm away from her breast, clenching it around her thigh, and harshly pulled on his belt in addition, choking the whimpering girl in his lap and cutting off her oxygen supply significantly. He knew not to murder her, at least not now, not before she'd come all over his thigh, anyway.

“Meant to say something?” Riddle interrogated, the feigned curiosity in his voice dripping with perilous venom. “Somehow, I do not recall allowing you to speak up. However, the nature of your truncated remark has admittingly sparked my interest. Do continue, I'm all ears.”

Biting back a moan so as not to inform him she was thoroughly enjoying his coarse treatment, the young witch proposed, voice trembling with a mixture of fear and lasciviousness, “My Lord, I meant to ask to taste you...” After a scornful and hurtfully condescending laugh from Riddle, which translated to him not buying into a single word – seriously, [Y/N] should've known better than to lie to him so shamelessly, considering it was impossible to fool him – she recognised that she had driven herself into a dead end and began to outright beg, “May I please just taste you, my ever–”

“Shut your filthy mouth and keep riding,” he hissed in response, not caring enough to hear her pathetic statement in its entirety. Simultaneously tugging at the tough leather belt that was encasing her neck, Riddle caused the young witch to shriek, her eyes assuming the size of saucers for a brief moment. She nevertheless continued bouncing, dangerously close to both coming and losing consciousness. Whichever commenced first she didn't bother about, for her priorities laid someplace entirely different. Thereupon, [Y/N] complied, riding Tom's thigh with feeble sets of cries and incomprehensible phrases escaping her throat in hopeless pathos. Tom solely watched, all concentration gathered upon the girl in his lap, biting his bottom lip at the sight. No matter how empyreal sex got, it would never outweigh the feeling of someone so humiliatingly desperate for you, to the point where they whimpered like a puppy and obeyed every command with such devotion they would give up everything they ever believed in for the sole sake of fulfilling their lover's wishes. Tom basked in that feeling; it bore more significance to him than anything he'd ever known, beside, of course, the thirst for eternal power, perpetual glory, and the heft of a crown atop his head.

A few frenzied movements later, [Y/N] was coming undone on Riddle's thigh, her tongue twisting in elegant ribbons and profanity tearing free from her throat. Tom's knuckles assumed an ivory shade due to the mighty grasp he'd placed on her thigh, his touch scattering goosebumps over the perimeter of the girl's skin. Her juices coated and soaked through the fabric of his trousers, spreading rousing warmth brought on by friction throughout their bodies; in the moment, it seemed as though the two of them had become one, and once the young witch had gazed into his eyes once more, they appeared to have the faintest trace of a reflection, if only for a fraction of a second, though potentially a brash trick played upon her by her own mind.

**Author's Note:**

> aaand, that's it! if you care, give me a follow on twitter - @/nobleregulus - i'm friendly and always willing to converse!! :)


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